Well, the stage driver, finally believing this, goes
to work and quietly and unostentatiously steals--I say, have you got a
cigar?"
"I'll get you one."
Harlowe disappeared in the adjoining room. Thatcher dragged Harlowe's
heavy, revolving desk chair, which never before had been removed
from its sacred position, to the fire, and began to poke the coals
abstractedly.
Harlowe reappeared with cigars and matches. Thatcher lit one
mechanically, and said, between the pulls:
"Do you--ever--talk--to yourself?"
"No!--why?"
"I thought I heard your voice just now in the other room. Anyhow, this
is an awful spooky place. If I stayed here alone half an hour, I'd fancy
that the Lord Chancellor up there would step down in his robes, out of
his frame, to keep me company."
"Nonsense! When I'm busy, I often sit here and write until after
midnight. It's so quiet!"
"D--mnably so!"
"Well, to go back to the papers. Somebody stole your bag, or you lost
it. YOU stole--"
"The driver stole," suggested Thatcher, so languidly that it could
hardly be called an interruption.
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